


An Awful Cold Night

by JustJasper



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drinking, M/M, Rimming, Underwear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 04:45:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12904347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJasper/pseuds/JustJasper
Summary: The first time Dorian goes to the Bull's room, he leaves his silky underthings behind. The second times, things are a little different.





	An Awful Cold Night

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [gobetti](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gobetti).

“ **Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.” - Edith Sitwell**

Winter comes to Skyhold in a flurry of snow that settles quickly on the parapets and the ground, though the walls save the keep from most of the wind. A dwarf bustles across the courtyard with an armful of blankets destined for the stables. One of Red's spies readjusts her hood as she walks, stepping only in the tracks left by other passers by.

The Bull leans against the wall outside his room and watches, door closed to keep the heat in. He doesn't succumb to the cold like humans do, thick-skinned and well trained, but he still feels it whipping at his back. He’s been in worse, without any choice to retreat. He stands it for a few minutes more to watch the rush before the evening bell, as Skyhold sees its last flurry of activity before most of the professions call it a night.

Back in the warmth of his room, he's got accounts to keep, an hour's work at most, and then he'll join his boys in the tavern below. A good night, by any standard.

First, the books: winter means change, means boots need mending, cloaks need hemming, and a bunch of his boys are due new gear as the weather turns. They'll be heading to Emprise du Lion before the month's out, so the kit needs to be sorted. Krem will check his work afterwards, make sure it all makes sense in trade and he hasn't slipped into old codes. The last parts of a life he can't quite shake, pebbles washed up on a beach, smoother each time.

Dorian comes by the castle wall rather than through the tavern, giving himself away before he knocks as he swears at the cold outside the Bull's door.

“It's open,” he calls, and Dorian doesn't hesitate to slip inside and shut it behind him. He's bundled up against the cold, thick travelling cloak wrapped around him, though he pulls his hood down as he sinks into the warmth of the room with a sigh.

“When did you get your roof fixed?” He asks in lieu of a greeting, holding a bottle of wine aloft as he pulls a face at the now patched hole that had marred the upper wall and part of the roof of the room.

“This morning, while I was training, I reckon.”

The builders had removed all the broken furniture and rubble too, along with the ivy that had grown on the walls, andput new glass in the window. All that remained as evidence of their work was a fine layer of sawdust in the fixed corner of the room.

“About time. I don't know how you lived like that. I'd thought you'd keep a neat house, being a former military man and all that.”

That was true enough, but the Bull could have lived with the room as it was, and the Inquisition's resources could be better served elsewhere. But if they'd made it down the list of things to do far enough to get to his room, he wasn't about to complain.

“I wondered if you fancied a drink on this awful cold night,” Dorian says as he sheds his cloak, sets the bottle on the table by the Bull and goes to the fire to warm his hands. He's seen Dorian a hundred times make magical fire in his palms to warm them, but not here in the Bull's room, even though he’s complained about the cold every time he’s stepped foot there. “And perhaps a fuck.”

“In that order?”

“In any order. We can at least open the bottle first. Do you have glasses?”

“I've got mugs.”

Dorian flicks his wrist at him. “It's better than a cupped hand.”

The Bull fishes a couple of metal travelling mugs out of his trunk while Dorian deftly uncorks the bottle and gives it a cursory sniff. Satisfied, he pours them each a generous serving.

“To warm rooms,” Dorian says, and clangs his mug against the Bull's, leans against the table.

“You really don't do well in the cold, do you? You even see snow before you came South?”

“I've been up the mountains back home, if you go high enough there's some snowfall. I've never been this bitterly cold before coming South, though.”

“And you need to bask like a lizard to be happy.”

“Quite. I don't understand how you don't feel the cold, being as much a Northerner as I am. Is it a qunari thing?”

He pats his stomach. “I'm better insulated.”

“That you are.” Dorian smiles as he reaches out to lay his hand against the Bull's stomach, almost studiously as he drinks from his wine. His fingers toy with the edge of his belt, teasing the leather away from his skin. “About that fuck...”

The Bull laughs into his wine. “Told you, my door's always open.”

“Can I expect a repeat of the last time?”

“Oh, three times? Whatever you want, Dorian.”

“I want,” he says, putting his wine down on the table, “you to start by kissing me.”

How's he going to deny the man that, even if he wanted to play games tonight? He tilts Dorian's chin up and leans in to press their lips together. Dorian hums, and slips his fingers further under the Bull's belt, flexing his fingers against the skin of his stomach. He tugs it, and the Bull pulls back so he can unbuckle the belt and slip it off. He kisses him again, scratching lightly at the back of Dorian's neck as he opens his mouth to the kiss, catches the Bull's lip between his and runs his tongue along it.

“Hey, let me look at you,” the Bull says, when he finally pulls away. “We were drunk the last time I undressed you, got to figure out what all these straps are for.”

“Have at me,” Dorian says, standing away from the table to give the Bull access. After a once over, a slow walk around Dorian to linger over the sight of him, the top is easy enough to figure out which straps hold which bit in place. The leather comes away in parts, and the shirt underneath unlaces and comes off over his head. His boots are next, and then the leathers on his bottom half, leaving him in just his trousers and socks.

He kisses Dorian again then, cradling his head in a hand as he unties Dorian’s trousers with the other. He slips his down Dorian’s belly, and lower to loosen them so he can wiggle free, kicking them unceremoniously across the floor.

He's expecting silk again, like the pair of Dorian's knickers he still has stashed under his pillow. Black maybe, or red if he's feeling exciting – instead, under the soft leather of Dorian's trousers is dark blue flannel, britches that cover him from above his navel, right down over his feet.

“These aren't like the silky underthings you came in last time.”

Dorian fixes him with an unimpressed stare.

“Well, last time, after all was said and done—”

“Don't remember much talking.”

“A joke with no regard to the truth, I'm always talkative when fucking.”

He was right there; the Bull had always known Dorian would have a filthy mouth.

“After the energetics of last time, the cold got to me, because your room had a great hole in the ceiling. I thought I would come prepared this time, for my own comfort.”

“Did you, huh?”

The Bull circles him again, admiring the view. He's tickled to see there are buttons at the small of Dorian's back.

“It has an ass flap.”

“It's Orlesian,” Dorian snaps, then, “Besides, the lavatories in this place are drafty. A man would like to be warm while he shits.”

The Bull can't resist; he undoes the two buttons, revealing the warm woolen lining of the leggings, and the square window of Dorian's backside in all it's glory.

“If you want to stay warm, you can keep 'em on,” he says, cupping a cheek of Dorian's ass, fingers in fabric, thumb brushing over bare skin.

“Can we at least get to fucking?” Dorian says, which isn't a protest.

The Bull kisses him deeply, squeezes his ass, feels Dorian's hardening cock pressing against his leg. Dorian making demands, but no suggestions. Like that, then.

He turns Dorian around presses gently to the small of his back, and Dorian is following the motion and leaning over the table, settling himself on his forearms before he seems to realise what the Bull intends.

The Bull gets to his knees behind Dorian, still grinning about the winter underthings with an ass flap.

“Oh, I see,” Dorian says, a bit breathless, as he leans his torso on the table and settles on his arms. The Bull’s been thinking of this since Dorian left his knickers in his room. He spreads the cheeks of Dorian’s ass as best he can through the window of fabric and wastes no time licking against his hole.

“Fasta vass!”

Dorian twitches with sensation, moans low and punctuated by gasps. The Bull doesn’t want to believe Dorian’s never had this done to him before, but goes like it might be; steady, firm licks, swipes with the broad flat of his tongue, taking his time.

Dorian groans as the Bull finally presses the tip of his tongue inside, holds the cheeks of Dorian's ass apart, squeezing for good measure.

There's a knock the door that has Dorian flinching against the table, and a voice not long after.

“You okay, Chief?”

“Cremisius,” Dorian mutters, legs quivering as he presses his face in his arms. “I might have known.”

“I'm okay,” the Bull calls.

“You busy? You alone?”

“Am I alone?” the Bull says quiety, pressing a kiss to Dorian's ass. Dorian huffs, lifting his head.

“No, he's not,” Dorian calls. “Kindly fuck off.”

Krem definitely laughs on the other side of the door.

“See you later, Chief.”

Dorian's legs flex as he reaches for one of the abandoned mugs of wine, but he doesn't make any real move to change his position.

“Didn't think you wanted people to know about this.”

“I hardly expect you not to tell your men you've had me. Who am I to deny them my naked glory in the retelling? Besides, you announced our – ah – ill-considered night to all and sundry.”

“Don't remember you objecting,” the Bull says. He presses his jaw to Dorian's skin, lets his stubble rake across it.

“When I object, I'll make it abundantly clear. For example: I wholeheartedly object to your tongue being busy talking instead of in my ass.”

“Bossy,” the Bull says, but he does as bid and licks a stripe against Dorian's hole. The mug clatters to the table, and Dorian pushes back against the Bull's tongue. The Bull presses deeper, leaves Dorian panting with each wet slide of his tongue, buries his face and gives Dorian his best.

He knew Dorian would be into this – had hoped. Really wanted Dorian to be into it, because an ass like this deserves it, a man like Dorian deserves—

“Fuck, Bull.”

The Bull reaches under Dorian, searching for a button at the front of his garb – yes, there – the Bull undoes it, reaches inside it to free Dorian's hard cock. Dorian pants against his arm, caught between thrusting forward into the ring of the Bull's fist or back against the tongue pressing inside him.

The Bull holds him there, not giving him enough to push him over the edge, smears precome down his cock slowly as he winds him tongue around the rim of his hole.

“You absolute brute,” Dorian gasps, and comes like that; tongue in his ass, hand around his cock, swearing and banging a fist on the tabletop, moaning long and loud as his body twitches and trembles.

The Bull’s knee throbs painfully when he gets to his feet, fades to the usual dull ache quickly. He admires Dorian’s ass for a moment, squeezes two good handfuls of it, then pulls the flap of Dorian's underthings up and fastens the buttons while Dorian catches his breath.

By the time the Bull has washed his hand free of spend at the basin, Dorian has righted himself and tucked his soft cock away, and is refilling the mugs with wine.

“You liked that?” the Bull asks, as Dorian presses a mug into his hand.

“Don't let it be said I'd ever claimed to think you untalented, Bull.” He drops his empty hand to the Bull's cock where it's hard against the leg of his trousers. Dorian traces the shape of it with his fingers, sips primly from his own wine. “Do you intend to go to your boys now? Or perhaps you could be persuaded to finish this bottle with me.”

The Bull leans down to kiss Dorian, who kisses back fiercely, groans, and must taste himself on the Bull's tongue. Persuasion isn't going to be necessary, the Bull is already convinced.

“ **God created each one of us with a light inside. I’ve had sex with all kinds of people; every single person has a kind of beam inside that shines once they are touched properly.” - Rawi Hage**


End file.
